


i just want you more

by cascadeoceanwave



Series: cowboy like me - jaylor lavender marriage one shots [3]
Category: Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Miscarriage, Pregnancy, joe is the harry cameron to taylor's evelyn hugo, toe lavender marriage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:34:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29684745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cascadeoceanwave/pseuds/cascadeoceanwave
Summary: You know something is wrong as soon as you wake up that morning.  You can’t tell exactly what, but everything around you feels off.  Like the feeling in the air before a tornado touches down when everything is too quiet.  Too perfect.
Relationships: Joe Alwyn & Taylor Swift
Series: cowboy like me - jaylor lavender marriage one shots [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2061351
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	i just want you more

**Author's Note:**

> cw/tw for miscarriage and allusions to eating disorders
> 
> title is from the halsey song "more"

You know something is wrong as soon as you wake up that morning. You can’t tell exactly what, but everything around you feels off. Like the feeling in the air before a tornado touches down when everything is too quiet. Too perfect. You can feel it in your bones and in the beating of your heart. Your stomach twists and turns uncomfortably. But, where there’s a handful of times when your gut instincts have been right, there’s hundreds more when it was just irrational anxiety. So, you push the feeling down and reassure yourself that everything is alright.

You have a meeting with Tree in the morning to hash out the details of your break, and you’re freaked out enough that she asks if everything is okay. You tell her everything’s fine, you’re just feeling a little anxious. Four months ago you finished up your last stadium show for a while and announced a break. You can never fully stop working, so you’re co-writing on some Big Red Machine stuff with Aaron and Justin to give yourself something to do. Nobody knows you’re pregnant except for Mom. Tree and both of your families know you’re trying, but not the details. “Take it easy, honey,” Tree says before you leave. She pulls you into a hug that’s comforting in the way only mothers can be. You wonder if she can tell you’re pregnant. You could tell almost immediately.

When you get home, Joe is waiting with takeout from your favorite restaurant. Morning sickness, a name that is very misleading because it usually hits for you in the afternoons, comes on right after you eat, and Joe sits with you on the bathroom floor sympathetically. Your doctor said it should be starting to let up soon, but it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. You’ve actually been losing weight these past few weeks. 

“I think I’m going to go take a nap,” you tell him after puking up what feels like everything you’ve ever eaten. “I don’t feel very well.”

“Okay, shout if you need anything,” he says, giving your hand a squeeze.

You fall asleep almost instantly, and don’t wake up until about 5pm. You’re groggy, so it takes you a second to realize that the dull pain from earlier has slithered around your stomach and tightened its grip. __ Dread sinks down to meet it, and you roll out of bed. Your fingers shake as they grip the waistband of your sweatpants. You feel faint, but you can’t tell if it’s just anxiety.  _ Fuck _ . There’s blood.

You reach for your phone and text Joe. “Come upstairs.”

A minute passes, or maybe it’s an entire year, and you hear his footsteps coming up the stairs. “Hey, what’s up?” he says cheerfully, poking his head in the room. Then, taking in your expression, “Woah, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

You open your mouth a couple of times but you can’t get the words out. Your eyes are glued to the floor, unable to meet his. “I...IthinkI’mhavingamiscarriage,” you finally force out. Your throat feels like sandpaper.

Joe is quiet, and you know that means he’s processing your words. He always takes a second to think. He’s always so level-headed in a crisis. “Oh my god,” he says softly, “Okay.” He gathers you into a hug and guides you into a seat on the bed. “Can you tell me why you think that?”

“I’ve been feeling bad all day and I woke up with cramps. And there’s…there’s blood. Like a lot of blood. I think. I don’t know. I’m too scared to look.”

“Why don’t we call the clinic and see what they say,” Joe says, calm as ever, but you can feel the tension in his body.

“Okay.”

You speak on the phone with your doctor for several minutes. She’s very good at her job and as reassuring as she can be without promising that nothing is wrong. She tells you to come in, just in case.

“I need to go change,” you say awkwardly, shrugging out of Joe’s embrace. You can’t look at him. 

“I’ll go tell security to get the car ready,” he says. “Do you...should we...what should I tell them?”

You pause, running your finger back and forth along the hem of your t-shirt. “Tell them the truth. They’re not stupid, they’ve driven us there before anyway.”

“Okay,” he says. He leaves the room and you can hear him running down the stairs. You grab a new pair of underwear and throw the dirty pair in the trash. You don’t usually use pads, but you manage to find one after rummaging through the drawers in your bathroom. You throw on a sweatshirt, grab your phone and wallet, and run downstairs. 

The car ride there is silent. Your hands won’t stop shaking.

<><><>

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing you say to him when you get home and the door closes behind you.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he says, but it sounds tired, defeated. “Come here.” You let him hold you, and you both let yourself fall apart on the floor of the foyer.

Time seems to stop after that. At least you’re somewhat more emotionally well-adjusted than you used to be, so you know you have to keep going through the motions if you want to survive this. Like a ghost, you pull yourself out of bed every morning (or afternoon) and float through your house, one foot in front of the other. You feel so fragile, like your eyes are constantly leaking tears. Sometimes you catch yourself with your hand resting on your stomach absentmindedly, and it brings you to your knees every time.

The worst part by far is missing that feeling inside of you. Maybe they weren’t a real baby yet, but they were  _ your _ baby. You have lots of experience with heartbreak, but you’ve never loved anyone more. 

You know you and Joe are drifting. You mostly avoid each other during the day, but, since the first night, he comes to sleep in your bed. In the dark, you hold each other. You know you both process things differently so you’re trying to give him space, but, you really only see each other at mealtimes, which are another thing you’ve been struggling with lately. 

You know objectively that this isn’t your fault. But knowing it and feeling it so deep inside of yourself that it consumes you are two very different things. It’s hard enough not to hate your body usually, but it’s even harder to treat it kindly when it has betrayed you so greatly. You find it all too easy to slip back into bad habits and the tendrils of darkness beckon you gently, like the hug of an old friend. You don’t tell anyone because you’re not in the business of making people worry more about you than they have to, especially because this isn't even that big of a deal. At least, that’s what you tell yourself when you decide it’s okay to skip breakfast because you’re grieving. A coil grows in your stomach where the baby used to live, sharp and hard and spiraling.

You trudge through this routine for over a week, pulling the coil tighter and tighter until, one day, it snaps. Or rather, Joe does. Your memory is hazy and it happens so fast, but one second everything is still frozen, and the next, there’s glass broken on the floor and Joe is crying,  _ sobbing _ , trying to pick it up. 

You have the weirdest urge to laugh because you’re usually the dramatic one and the change in pace is nice. Instead you take the shards from his hands before he cuts himself and lead him away from the mess. “Sit,” you say in a soft but commanding voice and he slumps onto the couch, head in hands. “I’m just going to clean up the glass so the cats don’t get hurt,” you say, “and then we’ll talk, okay?”

He makes a gesture that somewhat resembles a nod, so you figure it’s safe to leave him for a minute. Having a task to do is kind of nice, actually, and your brain feels quiet and purposeful. When you’re finished, you sigh, dreading the conversation that is to follow. Because talking about it surely means talking about  _ it _ and you feel like you’re one prod away from falling apart. But you go anyway, one foot in front of the other, back into the living room where Joe is waiting in the same position he was when you left.

“Hey,” you say, sitting down next to him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I don’t know what that was.”

“Don't be sorry, you're grieving. If there’s anyone who should be sorry, it’s me. I’m the one who got us here in the first place.” He looks up with bloodshot eyes and you curse yourself for speaking without thinking. There you go, making everything about yourself.

“Taylor, you know this isn’t your fault, right? Sometimes these things just happen.”

“Well, yeah, but without me you wouldn’t be in this situation. You could be with someone who loves you the way you deserve. You could be with someone who isn't defective. You could be happy.” Your voice cracks and you can’t look at him again. 

“I  _ am _ happy with you,” he says, but it’s in an exasperated i’m-telling-you-a-white-lie-and-i-will-secretly-resent-you-for-the-rest-of-my-life tone. “I chose this life with you, remember? I  _ chose _ to be with you. You didn’t trick me into signing those papers and frankly I’d appreciate it if you stopped acting like I had no fucking autonomy in the matter.”

Joe has  _ never _ raised his voice at you before and you’re thrown into that ice-cold panic you feel whenever a man speaks to you like that. The, “I’m sorry,” comes out softly, on autopilot, before your mind can really register what’s happening.

“No,  _ I’m _ sorry,” he says, quiet again. “That was uncalled for. I’m just...God, Taylor, I’m just so fucking sad.” A small whimper-y noise escapes his mouth like he’s trying to hold back a sob. You still can’t look at him.

“Me too,” you say, because what else is there to say? “I’m sorry for making this all about myself. You’re the one who needs me to be strong right now.”

“I don’t think either of us needs to be strong right now. Maybe we can both just be broken together,” he says. The two of you cling to each other like you’re a lifeboat out at sea, desperately trying to stay afloat. You think you read somewhere that saltwater helps heal wounds.

"You're going to be a really great mother, Taylor," he whispers into your hair.

"You're going to be an excellent dad," you say back because it's true.

<><><>

The healing comes, albeit slowly. You stop avoiding each other in the daytime. Friends stop by with condolences and food and loving conversations. You’re able to return your mom’s calls. You’re still hurting deeply and irreversibly, but you’re reminded that there is good in the world.

But when Joe brings up trying again, you freeze. “That’s okay,” he says, “You don’t have to be ready yet.” He doesn’t bring it up again. 

You'd already played through the baby’s entire childhood in your head. You had plans for the nursery decorations, for the birth, for their first day of kindergarten. You’re not just mourning what was, but what could’ve been. Maybe it's irrational, but the daydream you concocted feels so real that you're not ready to say goodbye.

Time passes. You write songs. Joe hikes. You sleep alone now, but you'll still crawl into his bed when the nightmares are too hard to bear. You get your period and the sight of the blood makes the world feel like it's falling apart all over again. But it doesn't. You're still standing.

You dust off the calorie-counting machine inside your head and are surprised to find it fully functional. One little nudge and it shudders to life, whirring loudly as it sucks you down the rabbit hole. By the time you manage to extricate yourself from the sticky web of denial, you're too far down to climb out alone.

"I can tell you it's not your fault but you're not going to believe me deep down," Gigi says as you sob to her on the couch. "What really helped me was knowing that he needed me to be healthy for her." She gestures to the dark-haired girl fingerpainting on your floor. 

You know that she's right. If you want to try again--and you do--you want to so bad it almost burns, you can't be in this precarious of a place. So you confide in Joe (he’s as concerned and understanding as ever) and put everything you have into getting better. Slowly. One foot in front of the other. You’re still standing. 

Four months pass before you find yourself at the clinic again. Joe sits next to you, holding your hand, trying to be both supportive and noninvasive. “You excited?” he asks, smiling hard.

“Nervous,” you reply. The appointment goes well, or at least the same as last time. The nurse is kind and understanding about your nerves and tries her best to be gentle. Joe walks you out to the car, and you have security take you to a Starbucks drive through on the way back home. There’s nothing hot chocolate can’t fix.

“How are you feeling?” Joe asks as you sip on your drink.

“Physically? A little sore but okay.”

“And mentally?”

“Uh, still pretty anxious, if I’m being honest. I’m too scared to get my hopes up, I think.” Sharing your feelings isn’t something that comes naturally to you. But you know he deserves to know the truth. 

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I mean now it’s just the waiting game, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, slumping down in your seat.

The next two weeks are torture. You hold off as long as you can before taking a pregnancy test, but ten days in, your resolve finally breaks. “Joe, come look at it!” you call from the bathroom. “I’m too scared to look!” There’s a giddy, excited, anxious feeling bubbling in your chest.

“Oh my god, okay. I think there’s a line? It’s really faint, but it’s there?”

You force yourself to open your eyes. Sure enough, there is a very faint pink line next to the dark one, but a line nonetheless. “Fuck, I think you’re right,” you say. Tears start streaming from your eyes before you can really process what’s happening.

“You okay?” Joe asks, looking down at you in concern.

“Yeah. I’m just...happy, I think. Hopeful, maybe. Cautiously hopeful.”

“Cautiously hopeful,” he agrees. 


End file.
